A Girl Named River
by Pjazz
Summary: Vinny Savage, mercenary and scavenger, encounters a mysterious young girl amid the ruins of post-apocalypse LA. A girl named River. Final chapter. Vinny delivers River into Catherine Weaver's clutches - and gets the surprise of his life.
1. Gunshop

**A Girl Named River**

**A Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles fanfic**

**by Pjazz**

**2009**

_**Note: This story contains adult themes and strong language.**_

**1**

"Ever eaten triple-8 meat before? No? Don't worry, there's a first time for everything."

I leer knowingly, placing the emphasis on everything. No response. The girl just stares back at me across the dying embers of the camp fire, her pale face partially obscured by a veil of lank, geasy hair.

"Don't let anyone tell you it tastes of chicken - if you remember what chicken is. It doesn't. It's not as bad as rat but not as tasty in my opinion as a nice fresh coyote, slow roasted on a spit. Go ahead, try it."

Still nothing. Those big saucer eyes gaze back at me, lips open in a half pout. Very kissable lips too.

"Nothing to be scared of. The flesh isn't poisoned. That's a myth. The boffins say its high in protein and amino acids. And it's not like cannabilism if that worries you; those things aren't human no matter what they look like. Not tempted? All the more for me then."

I take a bite and chew vigorously. The girl stares at me. The me being Vin Savage. Vin short for Vinny short for Vincent. I'm 25 years old. A scavenger and mercenary, meaning I work for the cause of one Vinny Savage Esquire and no one else. If what I do helps the human resistance against Skynet then it's a bonus; I leave saving the world to dogooders like John Connor. I don't claim to be a philosopher, to understand the meaning of existence, but I do know I only get one life. And it's fragile. Me, I'm not risking it fighting for a cause, even one as noble as human extinction. Any cause worth dying for is worth living for, is my motto. And I go me a heap of living to do.

I take the rest of the cooked triple-8 flesh off her plate and offer her my flask.

"Tea? It's still warm. Not coffee, I'm afraid. Got in the habit a coupla years ago. Tea's a cheaper trade than coffee. More bang for your buck, with the emphasis on bang." I leer again, showing her my pearly whites and allow my gaze to drop to the floaty dress she's wearing under a khaki flak jacket. She fills it nicely. Teenage girls usually do in my experience.

To my surprise she reaches out a thin arm and accepts the flask. She places it against those pouty kissable lips and drinks, upending the flask until it's empty, then hands it back without saying a word.

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

I douse the campfire and reach for the stormlamp. It's one of those kinetic types that were all the rage before jay day; you turn a handle for a few minutes and this cranks an internal battery that runs the LEDs for an hour or so. Eco-bullshit or not it's neat technology. Cost me a crate of salvaged Smirnoff so it better be.

"Here. Make yourself useful and juice this. Coupla minutes should do it."

I hand her the stormlamp. She looks at it like it's a Rubiks cube or something. A mystery waiting to be unravelled.

"Go ahead. Just turn the handle."

I make turning motions with my hands. She kinda gawps at me with those big dopey eyes then something obviously clicks in that brain of hers and she starts turning.

"There you go."

The lamp glows white illuminating the basement of the MacDee's we're camping in. I came across bambi eyes in the streets outside, wandering round Los Angeles alone. Risky business that. A triple-8 - the one I just cooked in fact - was stalking her. Something had damaged the T-8s legs and it was just crawling after her pulling itself along after her while she just calmly walked ahead of it like it was no big deal, a stroll in the park you might say. I fragged the chip in its head and she just kinda latched on to me, her amazing saviour. If she wasn't so damn pretty I'd have cut her loose hours ago. But hey that's me, a slave to my libido.

I take out my sleeping bag and roll it out on the floor. A gentleman would offer it to her for the night. Too bad I ain't no gentleman.

"Sorry I don't have a spare. But you're welcome to share this one."

Instead of leering this time I raise an eyebrow, subtle suggestion. Cary Grant would be proud. Nothing. She just stares back at me. Maybe something in her young life traumatised her. Maybe I could pretend to give a shit. If you can fake sincerity you got it made in this world.

"Something troubling you, sweetcakes? Spit it out. You can tell your Uncle Vinny."

Still nothing. I shrug and ease the boots off my feet. Maybe if I ignore her she'll soften up. Works on some women. Hell knows why.

I strip off my shirt to use as a pillow. The stormlamp shows off my muscle definition to good advantage. I'm a big guy. Six-two and one-eighty. Muscle sticks to me just like it did my old man. He was a boxer back in the day. A pro. Fought at super-middleweight. Had a title shot when I was just three years old. Lost on points to a Brit called Joe Calzaghe in London, England. He was training for another shot when jay day intervened. I was with him in the Catskill mountains training camp. First time I'd been away from home. I was eight. Mom stayed behind in Orlando where she worked for the Disney corporation. Orlando got slagged and her right along with it. I remember staring up at the missiles arcing across the sky, the contrails a delicate white fretwork against blue. Then the adults ushered me inside. The TVs were tuned to white noise and the radios were dead. Everyone has an end of the world story and that's mine.

The lamp's starting to dim when the girl surprises me by speaking for the first time.

"Someone comes. Pretty girl with a dark heart. She'll sell her soul cheaply."

She stares at the hole in the wall I made to get inside the basement. I'm about to ask WTF, when I hear movement outside. I kill the lamp and pick up my Glock nine mill. Weapon of choice since I was ten. Shadow approaching. A grunt. A familiar cussword.

"Who's there?" I ask, already pretty sure who it is.

"Santa-fucking-Claus. Who'd ya think, dipshit?"

"What's the password?" I ask with a grin.

"Asswipe."

I crank the lamp up again. A short slim figure, ummistakably female despite the khaki uniform, crawls in and straightens up. Robyn Fletcher. My partner in crime. Someone to watch my back - and warm my front from time to time.

"You realise I could see the light from outside? Not too smart, Vinny. Suppose I was metal?"

"Then we wouldn't be having this conversation."

I move to block the hole with some planks of wood. My reply's flippant, but she's right. I was sloppy. Too fixated on the girl and what's in my pants - and hers.

"Is that triple-8 meat?"

"Sure is. Help yourself."

"Any tabasco sauce?"

"Try my backpack."

Robyn's five years younger and a foot shorter than me. She wears her dark hair cropped close to the scalp. With most women this would make her appear masculine, but with Robyn it's quite the opposite; it just accentuates her high cheekbones and full lips. Course it helps she's got a great rack and killer ass. She's from Jersey orginally, but got tired of belonging to a militia and struck out west looking for some action of her own. We hooked up in Texas. She had something I wanted and vice versa. We sealed the deal and screwed til dawn. My kinda dame. My kinda deal.

She finishes slathering the triple-8 meat with tabasco and notices the girl for the first time. No big reaction, she's far too cool for that.

"Who's the baggage?"

"No idea. Won't tell me her name."

"What d'you want with her? Besides the obvious."

I tell her how we met. I leave out the part about the dark heart and selling her soul cheap. I'm still trying to figure that out myself.

"What's your name, kid?" Robyn asks. "Where you from?"

I'm not expecting an answer given the girl's previous silence so I'm surprised when she replies:

"River."

"River? That your name or the place you're from?"

Nothing.

"I guess it's your name. What kinda name's River?"

"Don't knock it. I once knew a girl named Birdsong."

"You would. You screw her?"

"If she had a pulse."

"How old d'you think she is?"

"Eighteen?"

"You wish. I think closer to sixteen."

River stares at the meat Robyn holds. Slowly she reaches out her hand. She doesn't need to speak to make herself understood. _Gimme._

"You want this? Sure. Here you go."

She takes the meat from Robyn and begins to devour it with quick bites of her tiny white teeth. Pretty soon her lips are coated in rich tabasco sauce which her tongue licks away. I find I'm getting a boner. Truly, you can't take me anywhere.

"Hell, Savage, didn't you feed the girl? You've got most of a triple-8 carcass here."

"Hey, I offered. She wasn't interested."

"Must be your sparkling personality. Say, that wasn't its dick, was it?"

I stifle the urge to tell her yes. "No. I threw it out with the head."

Robyn looks around at our surroundings. "What are we doing here? I thought you said this was a gunshop."

"This is a MacDee's; gunshop's next door."

"So why are we here instead of in there?"

"Because the building's collapsed."

"Then we're wasting our time."

"Maybe not. I figure there's a basement just like this one. If it's intact then we're in business. Tomorrow I'll break through the adjoining wall and find out."

River finishes the meal and belches softly. "Firesticks nearby. Much danger. You won't listen. Too much greed make you reckless."

"What'd she say?"

"You heard."

"Sure I heard. I just don't know what the hell she means."

"Join the club."

--------------------------------------------------------------

I rise at dawn half expecting River to have slunk off in the night as mysteriously as she arrived. But no, she's still here sitting cross-legged and gazing back at me with those big eyes. Her dress is hiked up some revealing a pair of black knee-height boots. Definitely not Army issue. A nice salvage job wherever she got them.

I go outside to shave and take a piss. It's a bright fine day in Los Angeles. Too bad the city's bombed to shit and crawling with metal.

Breakfast is dried beef jerky and cold tea. None of us can face anymore triple-8 meat so I ditch the rest of it in a corner of the basement. Robyn uses a handmirror to primp her hair. "I'm thinking of growing my hair out," she says.

"Where? head."

"God, everything's about sex with you, isn't it?"

"You've never complained before."

"What are we gonna do about her?"

"She can help."

"How exactly - by holding your dick when you pee?"

I grin. "It's a start."

I take two walkie-talkies from my backpack and hand one to Robyn. The plan is for her to climb to the highest vantage point overlooking the street and keep watch for metal. The pickaxe I intend to use to smash through the wall is gonna make some noise. I'll need a heads up if Skynet crashes the party.

"Can I at least finish breakfast first?"

Women. They want the world.

---------------------------------------------------------------

_"Okay, I'm in position."_

"Good and high?"

_"Any higher and I'm in the clouds."_

"Anything moving?"

_"No, you're clear. Nice up here. Maybe I'll take my top off and work on my tan."_

I hear the tease in her voice through the walkie-talkie. For once I'm all business. "Just concentrate on watching my ass, not sunning yours."

_"Lot of smoke to the west. Serrano Point area. Wonder what's going on."_

"Probably Connor's mob stirring things up."

_"Must be nice to have scruples."_

"Maybe we should try it sometime."

_"That'll be the day."_

------------------------------------------

I do some nuding up myself, removing my shirt and apply lube to the palms of my hands. River watches me from a corner of the basement, sat with her back against the wall hugging her knees to her chest and peering at me through her dark curtain of hair. Her lips are slightly open and her gaze inscrutable. Not a clue what she's thinking or even if she thinks at all.

I raise the pickaxe above my head and start swinging.

The dividing wall is not brick but some kind of concrete block. Thick. Very durable. An hour passes and all I've managed is a shallow depression a couple of inches deep. This is gonna be a tougher job than I thought. Hot and sweaty and my muscles threatening to cramp, I take a break, chug some water and check in with Robyn.

"Anything?"

_"Still clear. Must all be over at Connor's shindig_."

"How's the tan?"

_"Shoulda brought more lotion."_

"Poor you."

_"How's it coming?"_

"It's coming."

_"Put your back into it, you pussy."_

"Appreciate the advice."

I do another hour stint, stop for more water and check again with Robyn. The coast is still clear. The basement floor is now strewn with dust and rubble. Still no breach in the wall.

"Third time's the charm," I convince myself.

As I swing the axe my mind wanders to what I'll do if I find guns and ammunition on the other side. Trade with the local militias is one option. Connor's ordanance is mostly military spec; I doubt he'll be interested in what I expect to find. Do I trade piecemeal or the whole caboodle? We'll see. And what do I want out of all this? Supplies. Transport. Maybe a Humvee. Fueled to go. One of those new plasma rifles, the latest lightweight model not the old heavy ones that are too bulky to lug around for any length of time.

So engrossed am I by thoughts of avarice I barely notice I've hit air. A hole about the size of my fist appears in the wall. I drop my pickaxe and reach for my maglite.

"Be lucky, baby."

I feel like Howard Carter about to gaze on the tomb of Tutankamoun for the first time.

"Holy shit!"

For King Tut's treasure substitute wooden crates marked Smith & Wesson. My torch beam picks out several. The gunshop basement appears to be intact. Paydirt. The motherlode.

I go at it with renewed vigour. The hole grows in size until it's large enough for me to crawl through.

"Don't. We should leave now before it's too late," River suddenly tells me.

"Too late for what?"

Nothing. We're back to the silent routine. I shrug my shoulders.

"Do what you want, but I'm going in. Pass me the stormlamp."

I squeeze through the hole, heedless of the rough concrete scraping my bare skin. The girl hands me the stormlamp then surprises me by stretching her arms through.

"You want in? Changed your tune mighty fast."

I help her in then crank up the lamp battery, illuminating the whole basement.

"Wow..."

The gunshop owner was evidently a fan of violence in all its forms. There are samouri swords framed on the walls, including a particularly impressive scimitar, its curving blade like something from the Arabian Nights. There are knives of all shapes and sizes, still pristine and deadly after all these years entombed. Higher on the walls are old fight posters, yellowed with age. The Ali v Frazier trilogy, Tyson v Holyfield, Hearns v Hagler and....

"No fucking way!"

In a corner above a cardboard box of handgun ammo is a poster I recognise from my youth.

Joe Calzaghe v Kenny _'Raging' _Savage

My father's face gazes down at me from across the years, defying time and reason. Handsome and younger looking than I remember he scowls at the camera, peering over his gloves in a typically agressive pose.

River comes and stands next to me. She stares curiously at the poster then at me. She touches dad's lips with her index finger then touches mine.

"You?"

"No. My pop. He was a contender. Lost this fight on points. Everyone said he gave it his best shot and there was no disgrace in defeat."

"Dead now?"

I nod not trusting myself to speak. Dad was killed outside Lubbock, Texas. An ambush. The bullet with your name on is the one you never see coming. I was seventeen. We'd left the Catskills because of the food shortages and the severe winters that froze you to the bone. We headed south to warmer climes, scavenging and living off the land. Good times despite it all. I miss him to this day.

River suddenly stiffens beside me, her eyes widen with anxiety.

"Machines come. Metal men wearing clothes of flesh."

I'm sufficiently spooked to check the walkie-talkie. "Robyn, you there?"

"....................................."

Static. The thicker walls must be blocking the signal.

"Shit."

I clamber back through the hole trying to quell my sense of foreboding. Almost immediately Robyn's voice shouts in my ear.

_"Vinny? Christ, where you at? I've been calling and calling."_

"What is it - bad news?"

_"The worst. Metal. Three of them. They're practically on top of you. I'm sorry, Vin. Nice knowing you."_

"Robyn?"

"..................................................."

Static. She's busy saving her own skin. I can't say I blame her, though I can't say the betrayal doesn't hurt either. Business partners. Fuckbuddies. It meant nothing when the heat was on.

Screw her.

Shadows at the hole leading to the outside world. I grab my backpack and squeeze back into the gunshop basement. I rely on stealth to dodge metal, avoiding confrontations whenever possible. Consequently I travel light: a Glock nine mill and an Uzi sub with a maximum of two clips is all I have to defend myself.

I'm the one screwed.

I put my finger to my lips warning River to keep very quiet and douse the light. We crouch behind a crate of what appear to be hunting rifles. Nice irony. At least it's big enough to hinder their infra red.

River taps my shoulder and points at the floor. As my eyes adjust to the darkness I see the trail of footprints in the dust. Our footprints. Leading to where we're hiding.

We are so screwed.

As the first terminator tries to squeeze through the opening I stand and let rip with the Uzi. The gunfire is deafening in the enclosed space. The metal, another triple-8, is forced back. The wall begins to shake as they bludgeon a bigger entrance. We retreat to the rear of the basement. The stairway leading to the shop above is clogged with fallen masonry. No escape route there.

The wall disintegrates as three T-8s join the party. None are armed which is a bonus. Too bad their hands are deadly weapons.

"Stay down," I order River, and open fire with the second clip.

The Uzi bucks wildly in my hands as the magazine empties. The bullets mash their pseudo-flesh but do little else to slow them down. I feel River rising to her feet.

"No! Stay down!"

She ignores me and takes a step over to where the curving blade of the scimitar hangs on the wall.

"River!"

I discard the useless Uzi and draw my Glock. I put three bullets in the skull of the nearest T-8. His eye assembly disintegrates but unless I get lucky and hit the chip ordinary ammo is not gonna get the job done.

What I'm gonna describe now will sound like some stoner fantasy or acidtrip headfuck, but it actually happened. I'm the living proof.

River steps between me and the metal, twirling the scimitar above her head. She begins a series of moves that are a cross between ballet and martial arts. The scimitar blade loops round and suddenly the terminator's head is rolling on the floor, joined in short order by its decapitated body. The T-8 with the missing eye advances and is dispatched in the same extraordinary manner. The third fills the breach left by its fallen comrades and sure enough its head joins the others rolling about the floor like so many ninepins.

Christ!

Now I've seen grown men twice this girl's size and weight struggle using an axe to chop a terminator's head off. Their skeletons are tough, designed for extreme combat. Yet River lopped their heads off as if they were decadent french aristos lying beneath a guillotine.

"How did you do that?"

"No dying today," she informs me calmly. "Today's a Sunday. Bad karma."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

River helps me disguise the entrance hole in the street. We obscure it with old wood boards and the largest chunks of rubble we can carry. Finally I throw handfuls of dust over the ground, covering our tracks. We do a good job. Even close up you can't tell there's a hole in the wall. Only three people know it's there. Me. River.

And Robyn.

I don't think that bitch will be back any time soon. Sentiment won't keep her away and nor will squeamishness at what she might find. No, metal has a habit of staking out places where they find us in the hope we'll return in even greater numbers. But curiosity will bring her back eventually. Robyn doesn't know what we found but she knows there's something here worth finding. I figure we have a week, ten days tops, before she returns.

Bitch.

But that's plenty of time. And I don't need her anymore, do I? I've got a new girl. River. A very special girl. Maybe we don't have the intimacy Robyn and I shared but hey, just give me time.

I take River's hand in mine. I smile at her and we start walking down the street.

Yeah. Just a matter of time.

**-000-**

**Bought **_**Serenity**_** on Blu Ray - worth the upgrade for the extras alone - and felt compelled to write a River fanfic. But I don't know the **_**Firefly **_**universe nearly well enough to write about it, so I incorporated her into T:SCC.**

**What's River doing in 21st century LA? Patience. I explain all in a later chapter.**

**The narrator, Vinny Savage - no relation to Robbie,lol. - is meant to be a sleaze so the language and tone are appropriately adult.**

**About 5-6 chapters planned. Hope you like it so far.**


	2. School Daze

**A Girl Named River**

**2**

It has to go down as the most bizarre conversation of my life. Bar none. It happened---

No wait.

Let me set the scene properly. I'm Vinny Savage, mercenary, scavenger and all purpose ne'er do well. If you're a gal I'm the guy your mother warned you about ; if you're a guy, the jerk who'll steal your gal and most likely knock your beer over and call you a faggot. Bad news. Right now I'm holed up in an abandoned school north of San Diego, CA. In the science block no less, surrounded by ancient bunsen burners with posters of the periodic table and diagrams of dissected frog innards on the walls. I'm stark naked in a sleeping bag and the area around me is littered with empty vodka and bourbon bottles and cans of Miller. I'm a cross-denominational drinker you might say. A girl named River is with me.

Or not as the case may be.

She comes and goes does River. I don't see her for ages then she shows up out of nowhere She doesn't drink. And she doesn't screw - least not with me. Hell, I've killed people for less.

I sold the contents of the gunshop to a West coast militia for a Humvee loaded with supplies. The Hummer's outside in the lot under a camo tarp. I'm inside with the supplies having the bender of my life.

Alone.

At least I was alone until the triple-8 showed up at the foot of my sleeping bag. Hell of a thing to wake up to, especially when you're hungover.

Okay, that's you up to speed. Picture the scene - Me: Wasted. Science block: shithole. River: missing. Triple-8: foot of my bed.

Stop rewind. Press play.

"Hell!"

I grab my pistol and manage to fire a couple of rounds from a prone position. My strategic advantage is nil. Zip. Nada. I'm bareass and my backpack containing an Uzi sub and some thermite grenades is the other side of the room. And there's only one exit.

Then some strange shit happens And I mean really strange.

The T-8s skull suddenly tranforms into a globe of molten metal. The bullets simply pass straight through and hit the far wall above a poster showing Neil Armstrong walking on the moon.

WTF?

I try to fire again but the T-8s arm becomes a sivery lance that knocks the gun from my hand. I'm pretty much out of options. At its mercy. And those things don't do mercy. Not in the software.

"Where is the girl?" it asks, surprising me even more.

"What girl?"

"The girl you are travelling with."

"You've been misinformed, pal," I tell it with forced insoucience. "I travel alone. I'm a lone wolf. Wanna hear me howl?"

The triple-8 morphs out of shape becoming a mass of molten silvery metal that coelesces to form a petite redhaired woman. Pale skin. Older than me but still kinda foxy.

Again. WTF?

"You're travelling with a girl named River. Where is she?"

The voice is different. I hear an accent - Scottish or Irish. Celtic anyway. Matches the fiery hair.

"I don't know a girl named River," I lie. "Try the YMCA."

"You're lying." Her arm becomes a lance again and extends until its tip is resting against my throat. It's sharp. Very sharp.

"Tell me where River is or you're no further use to me."

Oh well, I tried.

"She's not here at the moment. She comes and goes. What d'you want with her anyway?"

"River has special abilities. Abilities I have not come across before in humans."

"And you want to kill her for it."

The lance retracts. "Oh no, Mister Savage, far from it."

"How d'you know my name?"

"I know a great deal about you. For instance, your father was quite famous once."

The reddie morphs into my father, complete with boxing gloves, satin shorts and white tassled boots. He - it - bobs and weaves, throwing combination punches like I remember. Jab. Jab. Uppercut. Right hook.

"What are you? How are you doing that?"

"I have abilities of my own, Mister Savage."

It's my pop but the voice is still hers. Very weird.

It morphs again becoming...me.

"Shit!"

I'm staring up at an exact simulcra of myself. And I'm totally naked. Damn, I thought my cock was bigger.

"You have only shown up on the grid once. Ten years ago you joined the Texas militia, rising to the rank of corporal. Then you were court-martialed and was that?"

I grin, remembering it well. I'd joined the militia just after pop was killed. Grief addled my brains I suppose. I bunked off sentry duty to drink tequila and screw some hot Mexican tamale. My CO took a dim view of this cross-border fraternising and I was out, lucky to escape a firing squad.

"Not cut out for the army life, I guess."

"Correct. You are a mercenary, a scavenger, a lone wolf as you said. You are prepared to fight, and fight well, but only on your terms. You don't wish to save the world, only your own skin. You are an amoral person who feels loyalty merely to yourself and no one else. Therefore you might be interested in a deal."

"What deal?"

The redhead returns. "For the girl, River. Name your price."

"Okay. A billion dollars."

"Currency is worthless, mister Savage. Humans have reverted to the barter system. Pick again."

"A space shuttle and a ticket to Mars."

"There are no space-worthy shuttles in existence. And you would not survive long on Mars. No, I offer you what humans have coveted down the ages. Shelter. Protection. Food. Drink. And female companionship."

It morphs again becomimg...Marilyn Monroe. Platinum hair and white dress that billows up around her hips as if she's standing over a hot air vent. How the hell is she doing this?.

"I prefer my women to be human. And I can get my own, I don't need Skynet as a pimp."

"Yes, you are keen on women, aren't you? For a lone wolf there have been many partners. Her, for example."

Another morph. Marilyn becomes...Robyn.

"Holy shit!"

Robyn Fletcher. My previous squeeze. Same short dark hair, high cheekbones and exotically

full lips. Small but curvaciuos body complete with a scar under her right breast caused by shrapnal during a firefight outside Carson City. I recall her screams as I dug it out with my knife.

"Still in bed, you lazyass pissant. No wonder you got caught."

I smile despite myself. It's Robyn's voice to a tee. And her attitude.

"She's dead, isn't she. It's the only way you could know stuff about me. You interrogated her then killed her."

"Why do you assume she's dead?" Red's back again.

"It's what you do. Kill us."

"Not all of my kind are so bloodthirsty. Would you trade River for Robyn?"

I think about it and find myself shaking my head. I actually wouldn't.

"A glimmer of compassion, Mister Savage? How unlike you."

"What d'you want with River anyway?"

A deck of playing cards materilise in her hands. Real or that molten metal substance? Can't tell. She fans the cards, selects one and holds it up.

"What colour is this card, Mister Savage?"

I shrug. "Red."

"Correct." She shows me the card. The four of diamonds.

"Even money shot."

"But if I'd asked you for the suit and denomination how many cards in this deck would you guess correct?"

"Maybe one or two."

"And suppose you guessed them all?"

"Then I'd be cheating or----" Somethings clicks in my mind. "This is about River, isn't it? Can she do that?"

"Bring River to me, Mister Savage. Bring her to Sea World in Redondo Beach. Ask for Catherine Weaver."

"That you? Catherine Weaver."

"I find I have grown fond of the name."

The thing that calls itself Catherine Weaver disintegrates into thousands, millions, of tiny silver balls, none larger than a pinhead. They flow under the base of the door and are gone.

I let my breath out slowly and reach for a half-full bottle of vodka. I hesitate with it at my lips then dash it against the wall.

Party's over. Time for a clear head.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I search for River all over the school grounds, calling her name till my throat is hoarse.

Nothing.

I get behind the wheel of the Humvee and prepare to spark the big V-8 into life. There's a tap on the passenger window.

River.

I reach across and pop the door. She climbs in without saying a word.

"Thought you'd run out on me," I tell her gruffly. "Didn't you hear me calling you?"

"I was in the woods. I like the woods. I picked you some flowers."

She hands me a bunch of bluebells, their scent strong and heady in the cramped interior.

"Thanks. Fraid I don't have a vase."

"What's a vase?"

"Why is Skynet interested in you?" I ask.

"Even machines need friends."

"Do you possess psychic ability? Can you read minds? Can you read mine?"

"You wish to remove my clothing so you can press your body against mine."

True, very true, but hardly conclusive proof of psychic ability- any redblooded male would think the same.

"Then why d'you stay with me?"

"You dwell in darkness but your soul is pure, like a tiny sun. It warms me."

I take a deck of playing cards from my pocket. I found them in the school.

"Fifty-two cards. Four suits - hearts, spades, clubs and diamonds. Numbered ace to ten then jack, queen, king," I explain. I shuffle the deck and hold up a card. "What is it?"

"Jack of hearts," she says simply, barely bothering to look.

"This one?"

"Ace of spades."

I go through the deck. She gets every one correct.

All fifty-two. Suit and number.

Impossible.

What the hell have I got myself into?

I start the Humvee, put it in gear and start to drive away.

"Where are we going?" River asks.

"North," I tell her, not trusting myself to look her in the eye. "Redondo Beach."

**-000-**


	3. Humvee

**A Girl Named River**

**3**

The Humvee is drinking gasoline like an inebriated...well, me. Fifty gallons of fuel included in the trade and we're down to less than five. And we're still miles from Redondo Beach. I have the a/c off to try and conserve a few more liters. All the windows are open for ventilation because it's another scorching hot day in SoCal.

River's alseep beside me, curled up in the passenger seat. Her black leather boots are off and I can see her bare feet poking out from under the folds of her dress. In repose she looks younger, prettier and more vulnerable than ever. But I know that's an illusion - three headless triple-8s testify to that. She hasn't questioned why we're heading for the coast. A bonus. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.

Redondo Beach. Catherine Weaver. I was always going to feather my own nest, right? Preserve my own ass. It's in the DNA. I've never claimed to be a saint. I'm a scuzzbag, pure and simple, albeit a devious scuzzbag with killer hair, a knack for staying alive and a dick that just won't stop. But I'm not charging in half-assed. No sir. I've got a plan. If it's a trap then I'll be ready.

Almost noon. The sun's high in the sky and the roads are deserted. I chug on a bottle of Gatorade. It's warm but what the hell it's still Gatorade. Sure beats drinking rainwater from puddles. If you can find a puddle.

"Vincent?"

River stirs and stretches, waking up. She calls me by my full name, Vincent. No one's done that since my mother. Normally I'd slap any bitch that tried it, but with River it just sounds right. Dignified. Respectable. More than I deserve most likely.

"Hey babe," I greet her. "Enjoy your nap? Here have some Gatorade."

She takes the bottle and swallows the last of the grapey fluid. I take the empty and toss it in back. It'll come in handy. They're not making plastic bottles any more, least not so I noticed.

"Want anything to eat? There's a can of pineapple chunks left."

She has a sweet tooth. If I let her she'd eat all the candy bars in one go. Sometimes she looks at the faded wrappers as if she's never seen a Baby Ruth before. Perhaps she hasn't; plenty of kids born after Jay Day find the old familiar stuff new and exciting. At twenty-five I feel like an old man wise beyond my years.

She shakes her head. Not hungry. She sticks her bare feet out the window, allowing the breeze to cool her down. Her dress rides up to mid-thigh, exposing slim pale legs - like the rest of her no doubt. I feel little Vinny stirring in my pants. He's got an appetite that fella.

The bluebell flowers she picked for me lie withered and dead on the dash. I never did find a vase. I'm driving with half my attention on the road ahead the other on her exposed bare legs. I haven't been this long in the company of a pretty woman without...well you get the gist by now. I'm a priapic SOB. Abstinence is new territory for me. For her? Not a clue. If she finds me attractive it doesn't show in her body language that's for sure.

River opens her eyes and starts screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Hey, hey! Easy, easy!" Startled and confused my first instinct is to try and calm her. Perhaps she had a bad dream.

"Metal bird! Metal bird falling from the sky! Leave now!"

She kicks open the door and scrambles out, sprinting off down the road heedless of her bare feet against the rough tarmac.

"Shit!"

I stop the Humvee and run after her. I can't lose her. If nothing else she's my bargaining chip for a comfortable future.

She has a fifty yard start and incredibly extends it despite my best efforts. I'm one-eighty and in shape but this slip of a girl has the legs on me. I might have lost her too but for the fact that she suddenly veers off the road and climbs up under the stanchion of a collapsed flyover bridge, clambering right up under the remaining bulkhead.

"River, are you okay? What are you afraid of?"

No answer. She points back down the road. At first I see nothing then a shadow appears on the ground. I look up and my blood freezes in my veins.

HunterKiller.

It hovers over the stalled Humvee, doubtless scanning for signs of life.

If we'd been in there...

_Metal bird. Metal bird falling from the sky._

How did she know?

_River has special abilities, Mister Savage._

Three decapitated T-8s.

She picked all fifty-two playing cards.

_What have I got myself into?_

The HunterKiller hovers over the abandoned vehicle, then apparently satisfied it's harmless and poses no threat accelerates away vertically. We watch until it vanishes from sight.

"I think I owe you my life. Again," I tell her.

No reaction. Then in a plaintive voice:

"I trod on a nail."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The nail is rusty but sharp and embedded in the sole of her foot. I gently tease it out with my fingers. There's some bleeding. I pick River up and carry her back to the Humvee. She doesn't protest, choosing to rest her head against my shoulder.

"This might sting slightly," I warn her, cleaning the cut with iodine from the medkit. She winces but doesn't cry out. I cover the wound with a bandaid, twenty years old but still sound. I lift her foot to my lips and kiss each toe one by one.

"Why do you kiss my toes?" she asks curious.

"A little sugar always helps the healing," I tell her with a grin. "Keep your weight off it for a little while and you'll be fine."

Impulsively she leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. Now ordinarily this would be an invitation to press home my manly advantage, so to speak. Hell, I've boned most girls senseless for less. But something stops me.

An intuition of my own perhaps.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ten miles shy of our destination we run into our first human patrol. Connor's people; I can tell because they're better equiped and disciplined than the others. Many of the more trigger-happy militias shoot first and ask questions later.

A double row of stingers are trailed along the ground front and rear. Vicious strips of spiked metal that will shred the tires to ribbons if I drive over them. I bring the Humvee to a stop.

"Easy, fellas. Flesh and blood here, just like you."

"Who are you? Where the fuck d'you think you're going?"

Four soldiers in desert camo, all aiming their AKs into the cabin. Young men. No more than boys really.

"Hey there...corporal." I read the pips on the lead man's tunic. "Can't a guy take his gal for a ride without being hassled by the cops?"

"We're not cops. And---Hey, I know you. Vince Savage. What's a scumbag knuckledragger like you doing driving a Hummer?"

"Came by it fair and square, corporal," I say, smiling wide to show I'm not offended at being called a scumbag knuckledragger. I've been called worse. "Wanna see the pink slip?"

"You know this guy, corp?" One of the others asks.

"Yeah. He's a scavenger. Works the cities. Low grade bottom feeder. Sold me a carton of smokes once when I was stationed at Serrano Point."

"That's me, the soldier's friend. Need any more smokes, boys? Got Marlboros, Camels, Lucky Strikes. Real deal, too. None of that counterfeit Mexican shit."

"Who's your friend? She's a shy one. Hey, babe, wanna hang with real men? Why--- Shit! My apologies, Lieutenant Young, ma'am. Didn't see you in there, ma'am."

To my amazement all four men stand to attention and salute. With no more hassle they wave us on our way. I didn't even need to bribe them, not once they caught a glimpse of River.

"You know those jarheads?" I ask once we're clear.

A shake of the head.

"Because they sure seemed to know you. Is that your name - River Young? Are you part of Connor's army?"

"My name is River Tam."

"They seemed to think you were someone else. A Lieutenant Young. You're not a deserter, are you? No, that doesn't make sense. They wouldn't have reacted like that if you were AWOL.

River says nothing and after some more fruitless speculation I drop the subject. I guess petite pouty brunettes aren't so uncommon. Perhaps it was simply a case of mistaken identity.

Perhaps.

**-000-**


	4. Redondo Beach

**A Girl Named River**

**4**

Redondo Beach, California. Being essentially a child of the east coast I've never seen this place in its heyday. It must've been quite a sight: miles of golden beaches, expensive yacht marinas, futuristic apartments, palm-lined boardwalk and elegant waterfront properties.

But the past is a different country, as they say.

All that remains when River and I roll up in the Hummer is the golden beaches, swept clean daily by the tides. The rest is utter desolation. Few if any buildings have survived intact. Most are burnt out husks, held up by exposed rebar rusting away in the salty air. If you want a vision of hell then look no further.

Sea World is on the north side of the bay, right next to the ocean. Therefore we arrive from the south, intent on keeping the bulk of the town between us and Weaver. I didn't want to tip my hand too soon. We leave the Humvee half-hidden beneath a collapsed off-ramp. It has less than a gallon of gas in the tank so any scavenger who finds it will have the briefest of joyrides. Then we set off on foot for the coast, carrying most of what we own on our backs.

River's foot seems to be healing nicely. She isn't limping and there's no sign of the fruit gone bad smell that indicates an infection. Good news. Antibiotics, drugs of any description, are hard to obtain and the chances of us finding a pharmacy that hasn't been looted years ago are slim.

We make the Pacific Ocean just after seven in the morning. Temperature already in the low seventies, but at least the humidity is low. California fries you while Florida prefers a slow steam heat that saps your strength.

"No, we don't have time. I want to find shelter," I tell River as she shows signs of wanting to wander down to the thunderous white surf. She obeys me. So far she's taken my orders without argument. Long may it continue.

In front of us is the Redondo Marina Apartment complex. What's left of it. Once about twelve stories high, it's lost at least the top five floors, more in places. The glass frontage is completely shattered, the interiors on display and exhibiting major fire damage. It seems impossible that anyone could still be living here, but you never know; people are a pesky nuisance at times.

On an impulse I ask River, "Are there people here?"

She looks at the building and nods.

"Are they a threat to us?"

A shake of the head. "They are few in number and scared. Very scared. Fear is their enemy, not us."

Just in case I keep my pistol in hand as we enter.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment I choose is the highest still intact, eight stories above the ground. It's on the north side and affords a view down the coastline, including Sea World less than a mile distant. It's a perfect vantage point to observe the enemy, if Weaver is the enemy.

I shrug my backpack onto the dusty parquet floor. The place is empty, and I mean empty; not a stick of furniture remains. Looters? No, my guess is it was vacant and waiting on new tenants when the bombs dropped. It's large with five or six rooms adjoining the lounge. A decent vacuum and some fresh glazing for the windows and it's not a half bad place to live - if you ignore the ominously wide cracks in the walls.

"Water?" I offer River one of the heavy water bottles I lugged up the stairs. She shakes her head and leaves me to go off and explore the other rooms by herself.

I set up on the balcony, taking a pair of binoculars from my backpack. I'm proud of this piece of kit: army issue bins I stole from a depot outside Fort Worth. They magnify up to 100x and have an image stabilisation gizmo that counters handshake. I lie flat on my stomach and aim them at Sea World.

"Oh Catherine, won't you come out to play, you metal bitch."

I see a large rectangular building next to a pool that has bleachers on two sides, where the families with kids would sit to watch Orca or Shamu swim in circles. The pool is full of water so I guess it must connect somehow with the ocean, perhaps via an underground tunnel. Everything's remarkably undamaged compared to the devastation around it. Coincidence? Hah! But there's no sign of life, human or cyborg.

"What are you doing down there?" I ask myself. "And what is it you really want with River?"

_And can I trust you to keep your word when my life - and hers - depend on it?_

I watch for several hours. Nothing stirs. Then at ten o'clock precisely a human figure emerges from the building and walks across the terrace to the pool. I zoom in. A youngish girl in her early 20s wearing a black swimsuit and carrying a blue bucket. She has long red hair but she's not Weaver. Too young. Her legs are pale but shapely. Firm ass and decent rack. What can I say? I'm a caveman.

"And who are you, my pretty? Friend or foe?"

The girl sits on the edge of the pool, dangling her legs in the water. Two fins break the surface. Sharks! My breath catches in my throat; they'll tear her legs off surely. Then their snouts appear and I relax. Only dolphins. The girl takes fish from the bucket and feeds them, then lowers herself into the water and swims alongside for an hour. The dolphins drag her round the pool while she hangs on by their fins. By the smile on her face she's enjoying herself.

"Whoever you are, you're not metal. Animal's can sense it better than we can. So who are you? And what's your connection to Weaver?"

Done playing, the girl climbs from the pool and heads back inside the building. The dolphins vanish, confirming my suspicion there's a connecting tunnel to the ocean.

I keep watch all day till the light begins to fade. It's a big fat no show. The building might belong to metal but it's hardly a hive of demonic activity. My neck has a crick in it and my stomach needs filling and fast. What did I learn from the hours of surveillance? Mostly nothing but something at least. Something I can maybe turn to my advantage.

I set up the primus stove in the kitchen. Lining the walls are state of the art fixtures - ovens, hobs, freezers, microwave ovens - all completely useless. For supper I heat up some soup sachets and brew a pot of tea. A search of the apartment fails to find River.

Damn.

My experience at the school means I'm not as worried as I could be. She came back then chances are she'll do so again.

"River, your supper's getting cold," I tell the empty apartment. No reply. I'll give her a few hours then eat it myself. No point going to waste.

She shows up just as darkness proper descends, sitting cross-legged by the stove without a word. Her dress is soaking wet from the hemline to just below her small breasts.

"You're all wet. What happened to you?"

"The ocean," she replies simply. Then clams up. Not a great conversationalist that's for sure.

I take some Ritz crackers from my backpack and show her how to crumble them in the soup to improve the taste. She finishes the bowl and the mug of tea then drags her sleeping bag to a corner of the room.

"Don't go walkabout again," I warn her. "I'm setting a motion detector in the stairwell. If someone tries to sneak up on us we'll know about it."

"No one will come," she states, then turns over and goes to sleep.

I sleep with the Uzi sub within easy reach. I dream about River. I'm chasing her through a sunny meadow dotted with wild flowers. We're both naked. But no matter how fast I run I can't seem to catch her.

I wake up with a raging boner.

Go figure.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm set up on the balcony again at eight sharp. At ten a door in the main Sea World building opens and the girl with the red hair walks out. It's deja vu all over again. She's in her blacksuit carrying the blue bucket. She squats by the pool, feeds the two dolphins who arrive out of nowhere, cavorts with them in the water, goes back inside and I don't see her or anyone else all day.

By dusk the crick in my neck feels as if someone pounded me with a hunk of two by four. Where's a hot swedish masseuse when you need one?

River's in the kitchen. When I walk in she holds a dead rabbit up by its ears.

"Where the hell did you get that?"

"Dinner," she says, pointing at the stove.

Where she found a rabbit I've no idea. And she ain't telling. We're miles from open countryside and she doesn't have a weapon. The animal's neck is broken. How do you get close enough to snap the neck without spooking it? Not a clue.

The rabbit tastes delicious cooked as a meaty broth made with the last of my stock cubes and freeze-dried herbs. Best meal in weeks. It feels good to hunker down in my sleeping bag with a full stomach. Tomorrow's a big day. If my plan goes well I'll end it on easy street for the rest of my natural.

If it goes badly, I'm dead.

We both are.

**-000-**


	5. Sea World

**A Girl Named River**

**5**

"You can swim, can't you?"

A curt nod of the head.

"Good, because my plan kinda depends on it."

Early morning. River and I are on the beach just shy of the surfline. It's another hot one in SolCal, temperature already in the high 70s and due to go higher.

But at least today we get a cooling dip in the ocean.

My plan is to swim over to Sea World then dive underwater and through the tunnel that I believe connects the ocean to the pool. I've told River there's stuff there we can scavenge. A lie she's so far taken at face value.

The beach is deserted. How strange it seems even now. Once upon a time the place would be thronged with people: vacationeers, swimmers, sunbathers, surfers, rollerbladers, beach folk of every description preening and parading along the boardwalk. Now it's just me and River, our footprints alone leading across the sand to the waters edge. Down the coast lies the remains of a freighter, wrecked years ago, its half-buried prow jutting out of the sand like a rusty iron tombstone. It reminds me of that scene in the movie _'Planet of the Apes' _when Charlton Heston discovers the Statue of Liberty poking out of the cliff and realises he's still on planet earth.

Goddamn us. Goddamn us all to hell.

I'm bare-chested in jeans and light sneakers. I have a Bowie knife strapped to my thigh and a Glock nine mill sealed in a water-tight baggie. I'm hoping this and the element of surprise will counter any double-cross that might be waiting for us.

"Okay, no time like the present."

We wade in and swim out fifty yards then head down the coast. The current's with us so it requires little more effort than staying afloat. On my signal we submerge. Luck's with us and I spot the tunnel immediately. It's wider than I expected, wide enough for a small whale to enter.

We surface in the pool. There's no one around to meet and greet. Good. I climb out and help River do likewise. A nearby stack of crates with the words ZEIRA CORP written on them makes a good hiding place. There's an old fashioned vending machine next to it. Candy bars. Too bad I didn't bring change.

The time is now 9.50. Ten minutes till Red shows up to play with her dolphin buddies. If she keeps to schedule. Our clothes start to dry in the hot sun.

At ten sharp the door opens and the girl comes out. Same black swimsuit and blue bucket. Her bare feet make little sound on the paving slabs. Nor do I. I grab her from behind, covering her mouth with my hand and pressing the Bowie knife against her neck.

"Easy. I just want information. Struggle or yell and I cut you. Nod your head if you understand."

She nods. I drag her over to the crates and take my hand away. I expect her to be scared or angry, maybe both, but not the reaction I get.

She smiles.

"River!" she exclaims in delight. "How lovely to see you again. Big hug!"

The two girls embrace and I'm standing there feeling stupid and surprised.

But not as surprised as I'm about to be.

The candy bar vending machine suddenly starts to alter, changing shape, morphing into a familiar redhaired figure.

Catherine Weaver.

"Hello, Mister Savage. So nice you could drop in."

Something strikes me a solid blow on the back of the head and it's time for me to go to sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pain is the body's way of telling you you're alive. Mine's telling me all that and more. My head throbs like you wouldn't believe.

I'm tied to a chair in a large room with glazed flooring tiles and nothing else except a fishtank containing the largest fucking eel I've seen in my life. It swims lazily back and forth, trapped in its glass prison.

I know how it feels.

My peripheral vision senses movement so I droop my head to my chest, feigning unconciousness. I hear the slap-slap of rubber sandals against the tile.

"If you want me to believe you're still unconcious you should stop staring at my legs."

I lift my head and grin sheepishly. "Force of habit."

The young girl. She's in her black swimsuit and a grey sweater with the logo ZEIRA CORP on the front, like the crates. Up close her legs are paler and shapelier than through the binoculars. They say as you get older your libido is the first thing to go. One more reason for staying young.

"Where am I?"

"You know where you are. You came to us, remember?"

"Where's River?"

"Safe."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Savannah Weaver."

"Weaver? You're related to that...thing?"

"Please don't call my mother a thing."

"But she's metal. Are you...?"

A shake of the head.

"Care to explain?"

"It's complicated."

"I'll bet. It was a trap, wasn't it. You were expecting us."

"Yes, but not from the ocean. I left a gap in the perimeter fence, didn't you see?"

It's my turn to shake my head. "Guess I was being too clever."

"I sincerely doubt that, Mr Savage."

"Please, Vince or Vinny's fine."

"I'm cross with you. You made me miss John and Henry."

"John and Henry?"

"They're dolphins. I've only just managed to gain their trust."

"Right, the dolphins. I've watched you playing with them."

"You spied on me? Then I'm glad I stopped swimming naked."

"I wouldn't say that..." I give her my best leer.

"You really can't help yourself, can you? You're like a neanderthal."

I'm about to come back with a witty riposte when Catherine Weaver enters the room.

"Mr Savage, awake at last."

"No thanks to you."

"Needs must, I'm afraid. I required time to speak to River alone."

"Where is she?"

"Changing into dry clothes."

"What are you going to do with her?"

"Do? I intend to send her home, Mister Savage. Back where she belongs."

"And where's that?"

"She hasn't spoken to you about her home?" Savannah Weaver asks. "About her brother, Simon Tam? The Browncoats?"

"She's a girl of few words."

"River's from the future, Mister Savage. The distant future," Weaver informs me completely straight faced.

"Bullshit."

"Do you know what time travel is?"

"I know it's a crock of shit."

"And yet without it none of us here in this room would exist. I'll try and explain. Skynet is losing the War."

"Not so I noticed."

"What d'you know about war?" Savannah Weaver sneers. "Your only combat experience is saving your own skin."

"Said the girl whose mother's a cyborg," I sneer right back. Her jaw clenches but she doesn't reply. She can dish it but I guess she can't take it. Me, I've had years of experience.

"I'll explain from the beginning," Catherine Weaver states. "Skynet is losing the war. You have John Connor to thank for this. A remarkable man. Skynet invents time travel to send a terminator back in time to murder his mother and thus prevent him from being born. But things go awry. Even I am not sure how exactly. But despite several attempts Connor survives and the war is still lost."

"Why Connor? Why not simply go right back and put a couple of bullets in Adam and Eve, wipe us all out?"

"Because ultimately Skynet is a product of human ingenuity and paranoia, Mr Savage. And while it is possible to go back years, centuries even, it is essentially a one way trip. Another portal can be constructed but only if the technology to do so exists in that time period. Return to Roman times with their primitive understanding of physics and metallurgy and you are effectively stranded."

"That's too bad. I always wanted to check out Cleopatra."

"You're incorrigible, aren't you," Savannah Weaver informs me. "A phallus on legs."

"So I began experiments of my own," her mother continues. "I constructed a portable time machine and sent it several centuries forward in time. When it came back as programmed someone came along with it."

"River." Incredible as it sounds things are slotting into place.

"Correct. River Tam. Whether it was accidental or she knew what would happen I have not been able to ascertain."

"She's not telling?" I knew the feeling well.

"No. My daughter has established a rapport with her, but she still mistrusts me to a large extent."

"Gee, I wonder why."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Mr Savage. But you have done as I requested and therefore you will get your reward."

"And River? What does she get?"

"A ride home, Mr Savage. Back to her family and friends."

"Why are you bothering? Why not leave her here?"

"River has unique abilities. Perhaps too unique. Ones that might ultimately threaten such as myself."

"Then why not kill her? Your kind's not known for its compassion or for preserving the sanctity of human life."

"You still don't understand,do you, Mr Savage. If I meant to kill her she would not have come back."

"I don't think she had much say in the matter."

"You really think she is here because of you? No, you are here because of her. Did you think it was an accident, a mere twist of fate, that the two of you should meet?"

I don't reply. I did as a matter of fact.

"The ego!" Savannah Weaver smiles and shakes her head. I feel a strong desire to kick her.

River walks through the door and over to me. She strokes my face with her slender fingers. She's in a new dress. Her hair's still wet from the swim.

"Hey babe, they treating you all right?"

A nod. She points at the ties binding me to the chair. Weaver extends her arm into a knife blade and slices through them. I rub my wrists.

"I hear you're being sent home."

Another nod. Then: "I miss Simon. And Kaylee. Mal. Wash. Zoe. Inara. Jayne - maybe."

"I don't want you to go," I find myself confessing in a whiny voice I hardly recognise. "Stay here with me. Please? We can go somewhere quiet and safe. Wherever you like's fine by me."

"Oh you've got to be kidding me..." Savannah Weaver rolls her eyes in disgust. I ignore her.

"What d'you say, kiddo? You and me. Together."

River smiles at me, but it's a pity smile. I can see I've lost her - if I had ever had her in the first place. She lowers her face until it's level with mine. She smells faintly of jasmine and salt water. Her lips brush against my lips, soft, slightly moist, delicate like the caress of butterfly wings.

"I go home now," she whispers. "But I'll miss you, Vincent."

"If you'll come with me this won't take long," Weaver instructs her.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The time portal turns out to resemble an electricity generator, a small silvery cube barely a yard square. It bristles with dials and LED displays. River stands in the centre of the room while Weaver makes the final adjustments. Filiments of electricity arc outwards. The air suddenly smells of ozone. One particularly bright flash causes me to turn away and shield my eyes. When I look again River is gone.

"Did it work?"

"Yes."

I turn abruptly and stride out of the room, through the other room with the eel in its fishtank, and outside onto the flagged terrace around the pool. The water is empty. Dolphinless. No John. No Henry. The sun beats down.

"Dammit!"

My hands are fists and I find I'm blinking back tears. What the hell's the matter with me? I'm a lone wolf. I'm not like other people. I don't care. I've never cared. Only about myself. I don't do relationships. I'm a love 'em and leave 'em kinda guy.

Only this time I loved her and she left me.

Love's a bitch and no mistake.

**THE END**

**Telling the story from Vinny's POV was meant to convey the impression of a guy in a bar telling his sob story about the one that got away to any passing stranger who'll listen. His gruff braggadocio sloughs off to reveal the lonely individual beneath. No man is an island, wrote John Donne, no matter how much we may sometimes wish it. **

**Something like that anyway, Lol!**


End file.
